Almost a Woman
by medbceallach
Summary: "Usually when ladies share my bed, they have to pay a pillow tax and tell me all about the wicked things they've done." "What if they haven't done any wicked things?" "Why, then they must confess all the wicked things they want to do." After a long ride down from the Eyrie, Alayne/Sansa finds herself alone with Myranda. (Never written smut before; pls bear with any clumsiness!)


Myranda's room suited her, Alayne thought. It was wide and squat and comfortable, like her. Like her, it smelt vaguely of warm lemons and cinnamon.

The two girls had made a raft of mattresses, cushions and soft woven quilts across the floor, over which Myranda's curtained four-poster towered like a crow's nest above the decks of a ship.

Lying on her side amongst the linen and fur, in the candlelight, her new friend crouched opposite her and a bowl of apples and pears between then, Alayne felt almost like a girl again.

_Almost like Sansa._ She bit down on a pear and pushed the thought away. Even here, Sansa was not welcome, nor safe. Only Alayne – and Alayne was almost more woman than girl.

Myranda had insisted on dressing her companion in one of her own silk shifts. It was much too short and hung uncomfortably low at the front, but it would have been graceless to refuse. She twitched the hemline upwards as it brushed the tops of her nipples and watched Myranda undress out of the corner of her eye.

The girl was both wider and shorter than she, with pale, fleshy arms and stout ankles. She wormed her way out of her bodice and smallclothes, and for a moment Alayne had an unimpeded view of the girl's broad, heavy breasts, ripples of stretched skin radiating outwards from nipples wide and soft and pink; the ample fold of her belly; the pale dimples in her thighs and the soft thatched haze between them. Then a silk shift descended, obscuring all from view, and Myranda caught her eye and smirked. Alayne dropped her gaze.

Myranda stood, turned and walked towards the large side-cupboard near the door, sinking to her ankles in the makeshift floor. When she turned back, she was holding a great copper flagon and two glasses with delicate-looking stems. Alayne dropped her gaze to her sagging hemline and tugged it upwards again.

"And now, Alayne," said the other girl, returning precariously to sit cross-legged opposite her. She dug a finger beneath the rim of the flagon and the cork popped out with a tiny sigh. "Now you are required by law –" she tipped the flagon and both glasses turned a deep, dark red, "– to tell me everything there is to know about Alayne Stone, the natural daughter of Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord of Harrenhal and Protector of the Vale."

She handed her a glass and sat back.

Alayne could feel something tight in her chest, coiled somewhere beneath her breastbone. _Trust no one and no one can betray you._

She took a sip. The wine tasted of sour berries and spices and seemed to scorch her stomach where it settled.

"My lord father has told me very little about my mother," she began, but Myranda waved an impatient hand.

"Oh, spare me. If I wanted small talk, I'd be in out the hall with the _ladies_, fanning myself and kissing arse." She leaned closer. Her deep chestnut eyes flickered black in the candlelight.

"You are my captive till morning. Before that sun comes up, I want to know every kiss you've ever shared, every cack-handed fumble beneath the sheets, every place you've dreamed of putting your mouth. I want to know the dark, hot, secret things that pass through Alayne Stone's head at night. Everything that would make your lord father's little finger shrivel for shame, I want it. I forbid you to hold anything back."

Alayne's face was burning. Two warm plump fingers reached out, feather-like, to brush her wrist. She flinched.

The plump fingers closed over her own and lifted the glass to her mouth. "Drink," she said.

Alayne drank.

"My lady –"

"Randa."

"Randa, I… I would gladly tell you anything that I… that you would have from me, but I'm afraid…" She twitched her hemline up again. "I'm afraid you've had a much more… interesting life than I. I should be loath to bore you."

Myranda's eyes were dark and mischievous beneath her tumbled curls. In a swift, decisive movement, she drained her glass, poured herself another and repositioned her body so that she lay flat on her belly, propped on her elbows, knees bent and bare feet grazing her backside, her bosom crushed into two smooth mounds beneath her chin.

"Drink that wine up, Alayne," she said. "I mean you to be properly drunk by the time I ask you again. But I can see you're uncomfortable, so I'll start, shall I? What would you like to know?"

Alayne's mouth opened and closed and opened again. "I –"

"The first time I fucked a boy," said Myranda, inspecting her nails, "I was thirteen and he was a blacksmith's boy. I used to let him feel under my bodice when we were children, so when I bled for the first time, I waited a month and went to him. He tasted like sweat and cinders, but his hands were thick and strong, and he cleaned his nails for me."

She stretched a hand out over the candle between them and the flame licked between her fingers.

"I made him steal moon tea from his sister. At the time, I thought we'd run away and get married and live far away in a castle by the sea, but then some blue-eyed squire at a tourney shoved his head up my skirts behind his lord's pavilion."

The girl's ankles twined and untwined behind her, toes stretching and curling languidly. Alayne watched them, mouth open slightly. She hadn't felt it fall open.

"Then let's see," sighed her companion. "There was Tadd the kitchen boy, with his greasy fingers. The stable lads too – aye, all save the one with warts down below, but that's another story. That singer, Marillion, he came not long after. A rogue, that one, and hairless as a babe, if you can believe it, but he was good with his tongue. Rynold, now… aye, he was a man grown, no green lad at all and none too gentle, but _gods_, I never knew I could scream so loud. I near burst at the size of him. Then there was that time in the fields with the ploughman and his sisters…"

The candle burned and burned and threw shadows on the wall, Myranda whispered, and Alayne drank almost without noticing, blood burning in her hands and face. Myranda had lain with every man below fifty in the Vale, it would seem. Knights, lords, pages, servant boys and girl companions. She leaned closer and spoke softer with each new tale, so that Alayne's face near touched hers over the shrinking candle. Wordless shock turned to curiosity turned to gasps and fits of breathless laughter… and through it all, somewhere beneath her navel, a small glowing coal spreading heat through her belly, growing warmer.

They were sprawled side by side atop the pillows, clutching at each other and holding their noses to suppress the latest wave of mirth, when Alayne's ankle caught the copper flagon mid-flail and sent it clattering. She shrieked and Myranda clapped a hot, sweaty hand to her mouth before rolling clumsily after the fallen vessel. She snatched it up, peered inside, and upended it above her open mouth. A single red drop burst on her chin.

She set the flagon down and looked at Alayne. "Your turn."

The giggle died in Alayne's throat. She hiccoughed and tugged at her hemline. Her fingers felt fat and clumsy. Faces were swimming before her eyes, faces she knew. Faces she had hated and faces she had trusted. _Trust no one and no one can betray you. Confide in no one and no one can hurt you._

She wriggled onto her side and propped herself on her elbows.

"He was a knight," she said, slowly, crinkling her brow in the effort to concentrate. "His hair was soft and brown and full of sunlight, and his armour shone like the stars."

Her companion was watching her with narrowed eyes, but Alayne avoided her gaze, frowning instead at the little yellow flame dancing on its wick.

"I saw him at a tourney. He unhorsed everyone that day. He gave me a rose. A red rose. All the other girls only got white roses." She'd reminded him about it later, much later, thinking he would remember. He pretended to, to be polite, but she'd known. The memory left her feeling strangely cold.

"He was beautiful," she said. "Beautiful and gallant and brave, and he gave me a red rose." She tilted her glass to her lips, remembered it was empty, set it beside her and looked away.

"And did he sweep you off your pretty little feet, did he, this Knight of the Red Rose?" Myranda asked. "Did he assail you with sweet words and soft touches before he came for your maidenhead in the night?"

"No," said Alayne, defensive. "No, Ser L– he wasn't like that at all. I… I was _betrothed_ to him."

Myranda didn't need to know about Wyllas or Tyrion or Cersei or old Olenna Tyrell with her shrewd, wrinkled eyes.

Myranda gave a great snort. "Not _that,_" she said, hauling her weight closer and peering into her companion's face. "Not him. Look at my face. Look at me."

The words twisted in Alayne's stomach. She looked. Myranda's nose was inches from her own. Her eyes were huge and black in the dim light. "You're so far away, Alayne. You're dreaming, not feeling. Do you know that?"

A sharp tang of spices and sour berries stabbed Alayne's right nostril as soft wet lips touched her ear. A hand reached out and brushed her belly, just above her hairline, leaving a queer tingly warmth behind it.

"_Here,_" said Myranda softly. "Your guts, not your head. Has any man ever made you feel something here?" Her black eyes dropped. "Or lower?"

Alayne wanted to pull back, but she didn't. The older girl's gaze was burning her skin. The wine had spread through her body and her tummy felt hot. Unbidden, another face came to her, shrouded in darkness, eyes wild and savage and glinting green with fire.

Something dropped in her belly. She felt heat flood her cheeks.

Myranda's grin was wicked. "There," she whispered. "Now she remembers." She reached behind her and drew a flask from seeming nowhere. "Drink, Alayne. Stop fiddling with your dress. Who was he, sweetling?"

Alayne drank. It was stronger this time, heavy, bitter and acidic, and the smell of if called to mind another scent, sweeter, darker and sourer still. She drank again. And again, and then once more before she gave a shudder and closed her eyes.

"Huge," she said quietly. "Like some great beast. Tall and broad and brute strong. His hair is lank and his teeth are brown. His face…" She squeezed her eyes shut tighter. "His face is monstrous, half-melted. His hands are thick and rough and calloused, and his breath is thick with wine. But his eyes…" Alayne's head was spinning.

"His eyes?" Myranda's voice was no louder than a moth's wing.

"His eyes… are wild and grey and haunted. I've never seen such… such frightening eyes, eyes so full of hate and rage.

"He came to me after a battle, to my room. He was on my bed in the dark. He stank of wine and sweat and blood, and he grabbed my arm. He… threatened me. Pulled me on to the bed. He made me sing for him. He had a dagger to my throat. And then…"

"And then?"

"And then," she continued, swaying slightly like one in a trance, "he took my wrists and held them above my head, into the pillow, and he pressed down on top of me, and his… his mouth. His lips…" Her breath hitched painfully. She bit her lip, too hard, and warm liquid spilled on her tongue. "He tasted like blood and wine. His mouth was hard and cruel, but his lips were soft, and his… his tongue…"

She could feel it still, thrusting between her lips, between her teeth, crashing into her own, wet and hard and muscular and unbearably strong.

"His tongue?" breathed Myranda, but Alayne opened her eyes, chest fluttering, and looked away.

She did not speak for several moments.

"And then he left me," she said, and gave the flask back to her friend.

Myranda stared at her in silence for what seemed like hours as the candlelight flickered and Alayne's heartbeat slowed in her chest.

The hand that reached out and took hers was gentle. "Were you frightened, sweetling?"

_I was a child._

She frowned, shook her head slowly from side to side as though to even the effect of the wine. "At first I was frightened. I thought he might hurt me. I thought he might… take me. But he didn't. He never did. All he took was a song, and a kiss."

She thought of the feel of his face in the dark – smooth, scarred skin, bristle and warm blood, and the wetness on her fingers that wasn't blood. She'd brought those fingers to her own cheeks after, she could not have said why. Myranda didn't need to know that.

Another long silence followed. The flame between them sputtered and Myranda's shadow upon the wall gave a leap, looking for a moment like some huge black animal hunched beneath the ceiling. Then…

"Do you touch yourself, Alayne?"

Alayne stared. "Do I –?"

"Touch yourself. Pleasure yourself down there. Slide your fingers into yourself and out again. Do you?"

Alayne felt the flush creeping back, up through her neck and ears. "I… No," she said finally. "No, I…" She breathed into her stomach and drew her spine straight. "I have heard it said that such behaviour shames an honest maid in the sight of the Seven."

Myranda snorted. "Bugger the Seven with a lightning bolt," she said, and despite herself, Alayne laughed. "What kind of brute god gives us parts that feel good and then condemns us for taking pleasure in them? Did your mother never talk to you about these things?"

Alayne shook her head, for a moment forgetting that she had no mother.

"Your septa?"

"No."

"Well, you best believe they did it. They and their mothers and their mothers before them. And cursed and starved themselves for it afterward, no doubt, and thought themselves dreadful sinners. But I have a secret for you. Look at me."

Alayne looked at her.

"The gods," she said softly, "don't give two shits what you stick up there when the lights are out. Most like they're up there sleeping day-round or fucking each other's lights out, and you could scream loud enough to split glass and they wouldn't hear you. Besides, a finger can't get you with child, no more than can two or three." She paused for a moment. "Whomever they belong to."

And with the swiftest of breaths, she snuffed out the candle.

Alayne started, her cry of surprise catching in her throat. Then, surprising herself, she giggled. "Randa," she hissed. "What are you doing?"

"Lie back and don't talk," came the reply. "Might be the gods are sleeping, but your lord father is not."

Hardly knowing what she was doing or where she was, head hot and dizzy with wine and spirits, Alayne lay back. _Littlefinger. _A thrill of fear went through her, but the blood thudding in her ears dimmed its edge, and soon it was gone entirely. A curious warmth was spreading down her thighs, and her breathing came heavy.

"His name?" said Myranda.

Alayne shook her head, then remembered it was dark. "No," she said. "Why did you –?"

"You can see better with the lights off."

Warm hands came to rest upon her waist. "You're not a child, Alayne," the girl whispered, gently. "Not anymore. Now is the time to dream."

Knuckles grazed the tops of her nipples through her shift, ever so lightly. She gave a small gasp.

"How did you want him?" breathed the girl. "Like this?" She squeezed a breast, traced little circles around it with a fingernail. Alayne felt the body of the larger girl rise and lengthen to settle over her own. Her breasts were hot against her chest. "Or like this?" the girl whispered, and sealed Alayne's mouth with her own. Lips and tongue teased and manipulated, and then there was a hand between her legs and wetness on her thighs and Alayne's mouth opened and let out a moan.

It was almost easy to go back there, to her room in the dark with the deadly green light searing the sky outside. Again, a mouth was on her own, a tongue wrestled with her tongue, but now there was something else – fingers, around her, inside her, and a hand kneading her breast like dough. Small fingers. Light fingers.

She broke away, breathing hard.

"Rough," she gasped. "Harder. Not gentle. Do it rough."

A cry escaped her as the fingers quickened, pumping in and out with a wet, fleshy sound. Soft pillowy lips hardened around her own. The other hand squeezed. And suddenly it hurt, and then she knew she was there.

He lay on top of her, his armour crushing the soft flesh of her chest, one huge, rough hand, sticky with blood, engulfing her breast, squeezing hard. His smell filled her nostrils, sweat and blood and smoke. His breath rasped low and heavy in her ear as his tongue filled her mouth, wet and hot and tasting of wine. She responded with her own, and he snarled and took her lower lip between his teeth.

But his other hand…

His palms were coarse, the knuckles calloused, fingers thick and fearfully strong, and two of them were hooked and sliding in and out of her, slowly at first, then deeper and faster. The heel of his hand ground against her, one moment lingering and pressing in muscular circles, the next smacking wetly with a fierce jolt of his wrist.

"Little bird," he snarled into her neck, biting the flesh there, sucking it between his teeth. "Come for me, little bird. Come _hard_."

Her back arched violently and his other hand found the small of her back, pressing her upwards, into him. His mouth slid down past her neck to her breasts and his breath scorched as he sucked and snapped with his teeth and made broad, heavy strokes with his tongue.

An arm flew around his neck and she saw it was her own, fingers clutching at his hair. She felt his scalp tear beneath her nails. Her other arm was flailing; he snatched at it and pinned it above her head, plunging his fingers deeper still, faster, harder, grinding with the heel of his hand.

A ringing grew inside her head as tension built through her body. Her mouth opened under his to cry out, but he snarled and crushed her lips with his own, so she moaned into him instead. A deep, guttural growl was rumbling in his chest. She could feel it vibrate in her skin. Her body clenched and shivered and bucked around his hand.

A harsh groan escaped his throat, and with a sudden burst of ferocity, he was digging into her harder than before, fingers slamming faster than she would have believed possible, his armour crushing her breasts and teeth buried in the soft folds of her neck.

Her hips clenched, arching violently. Her eyes rolled back in her head, her mouth split open in a wide 'O'.

"Promised me a song, little bird," he groaned, and the break in his voice almost lifted her out of her skin. "I'll have a song from you. I'll fuck it right out of you." He bit her neck and she cried out. "Come, little bird. Come for me. Sing. _Sing._"

The last word was a strangled roar. His hand slammed into her, his hips jerked forward violently and hers bucked upwards to meet them. The pressure inside her exploded over his fingers in a wild gush of warmth, and her head snapped backwards as her body jerked and shuddered and heat pulsed through her, wave after wave.

And Sansa Stark sang.


End file.
